


The View from the Top

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kinky, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh into their relationship as lovers Sherlock pushes one too many buttons with John. John has enough and transforms into a loving BAMF, taking things to the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View from the Top

John unlocks the front door and immediately hears the sound. _Panggggg_ , it goes, followed by complete quiet. He frowns. Clearly the diva upstairs has decided he’s capable of something other than posing on the sofa like a porcelain statue of suffering. John starts up the stairs and as he’s rounding the corner, he hears the sound again.

He walks in to the sight of Sherlock stretched in the armchair, legs as long as his petulant face. His elbows are propped on the armrests while his hands hang limply— and somehow manage to have an accusatory air about them. John has no idea how Sherlock does it, but the man is capable of exuding discontent with just one of his shoulder blades. Usually this discontent is directed at the nearest person and, since they became lovers a month ago, John’s chances of being the nearest person have rapidly gone up.

Sherlock looks at John. Then he sighs, eyelids lifting towards the ceiling in perfect slow motion. John shakes his head and reaches to put his coat on the hanger. His military eye catches the blue blur in his peripheral vision. There's a whooshing sound and John sees the dart splinter the wood on the coat hange—at the spot his fingers had occupied not two seconds ago.

 _PANGGGGG_ , this time accompanied by a jubilant _Yes!_

Right. Enough!

John covers the space to Sherlock’s chair in two strides and scowls, extending his hand.

“Give it. Now!”

Sherlock lifts his chin. Ennui and irritation interplay on his face.

“Oh please. Even if it’d nailed your fingers, the poison would’ve taken an hour to—“

“I don’t care! Poison! Actual bloody poison,” John laughs in bitter disbelief, then clenches his jaw and wiggles his outstretched fingers. “Give it!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and his right hand slides to the floor to pick up an ornate exotic box containing seven darts and three empty slots. He clicks the lid closed and hands the box to John, holding his gaze with downright impudence. John resists a very strong urge to smack him behind the ear.

“Where are the other two?”

Sherlock gestures towards the coat hanger, wrist turning demurely.

“On the wall. Looks like my aim improved when there was a living target in sight.”

John grinds his teeth and keeps his eyes tightly shut for a few seconds. _God give me strength._ Sherlock’s voice becomes even more demonstrably bored.

“You can make yourself useful and give me back my pygmy darts, then go and stand over there.” He reads John’s body language and another remark follows, childishly spiteful. “Or better still, remove yourself completely— your sanctimonious suffering doesn’t bear looking at.”

And this does it. The whole damn morning, then the urgent shopping, then the tournament of poisonous darts— none of these tips the scales quite like the pot calling the kettle black. John is going to kill Sherlock. He is going to smother him with a pillow. He is going to strangle him with his bare hands, wrapped around that lovely long neck. He is going to--

John is looming over Sherlock, who stares at him with nothing but a dare in his eyes. The tension crackles between them and John’s nostrils flare— to get more oxygen to _fuel_ it.

This is truly hit the end of the road. There is a shift; there is something new here between them. It isn’t the argument. It isn’t the dynamic of a genius and his enabler. It isn’t the still-novel dynamic of sex, either. John’s been nothing but gingerly considerate with Sherlock in that department. From the moment they finished their convoluted journey to each other, it’s been slow and gentle lovemaking in the form of stroking, rubbing, two mutual blow jobs and— since last week— anal sex, twice. Both times with John topping and being even more of a careful lover, reluctant to push Sherlock’s boundaries and determined to treat him like the inexperienced, beautiful, unique creature that he is.

This is not the vibe that is resonating in his stomach right now.

John doesn’t know from what place in him this… thing is coming, but it’s angry and raw. And John’s overcome with it, yet fully, _fully_ in charge. He lowers his eyes to Sherlock and says clearly without raising his voice,

“Go to the bathroom and get yourself ready. Then strip and wait for me in the bedroom.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise— and some insecurity; John’s learnt to read him like an open book, too. The lips start forming a “What—“, laden with some remnants of derision. But John cuts him off before he’s even begun. He brings his face closer, unclenches his jaw and says in a soft but firm voice, “I'm going to fuck you. Go and get ready.”

Sherlock’s expression goes blank, but his Adam’s apple bobs sharply. He shuffles in his spot. John straightens and Sherlock gets up, eyes still duelling with John’s. Then there's another blue blur and he’s heading in the direction of the bathroom.

John’s mind is in a haze but he knows what he’s doing. He intends to fuck Sherlock’s damn temper out of him, until he is a pliant, soft mess in John’s hands. The mental image of Sherlock flattened into submission seems to have flipped the switch, and John realizes he is so hard that walking to the bedroom will be a painful task. He might have to go the kitchen for a cup of tea first. Sherlock needs time and besides, it will do him good to wait for John. Naked.

***

When John enters the bedroom, he sees Sherlock positioned awkwardly on the bed as if he couldn’t decide whether it was best to sit or lie down. He looks John squarely in the face, but his defiance is fooling no one. John walks to the bed with a steady step and studies Sherlock’s features for a moment. Then he runs the back of his fingers down his face in a proprietary manner. Both pairs of eyes are locked in a silent exchange. John breaks it: “Lie down.”  
Sherlock has a deadpan look on his face and he takes a moment, but eventually he stretches on his left side, facing John. John can now see his lover’s expectant half-hard cock and makes a point of looking; Sherlock doesn’t shuffle but his colour changes slowly under John’s eager eyes. John takes pity and starts undressing himself. His gestures are measured and he doesn’t make a show of it, but tries to convey he means business. Sherlock swallows when John removes his boxers, sporting an erection surpassing Sherlock’s. John licks his lips in a very calculated manner and stands there long enough for the space between them to fill with arousal and a hint of threat. Timing is everything.

Finally he makes his move and climbs on the bed behind Sherlock, who cranes his neck to look at John closely for a moment and then turns back to his previous position. The silence colours the eroticism of the situation with a shade of danger and John feels the same unfamiliar thrill from earlier in the living room.

He settles behind Sherlock’s slim body, which subtly leans back to seek contact. John lets his breath scrape the nape of Sherlock’s neck, but doesn’t touch him. He intends to play this out by some new rules he’s putting together as he goes along. His right hand slides across Sherlock’s abdomen; John can feel the muscles tensing more than usual and smiles privately. Sherlock still doesn’t know what’s going on between them. John will make sure to show him.

Without preamble his hand takes hold of Sherlock’s cock. John squeezes then gives it one rough stroke, keeping his fingers tight— no teasing and no easing. Sherlock gasps quietly and his buttocks clench. John forces himself not to let go and grab them instead. He strokes Sherlock firmly a few times then suddenly lifts his hand to Sherlock’s lips and commands, quietly, into his ear: “Lick.” Sherlock’s tongue darts out immediately and gives John’s fingers a quick lick. John tsks and commands again.

“Do it properly. If you want my hand on your cock, you’ll have to make it slick first.”

Sherlock’s breathing is already laboured, and John knows it’s the talk as much as the action; this, too, is a new territory for them. The pink tongue comes out again, but this time it flattens and licks the whole of John’s palm. Sherlock starts lapping, over and over again; the tip of his tongue only briefly stopping to tease the soft spots between John’s fingers. John’s forgotten how many nerve endings the palm’s got and his control wavers; he abruptly decides it’s enough. He uses his hand to turn Sherlock’s face— John’s got plans to suck on that velvety tongue— then moves his fingers back to Sherlock’s cock. The motion is much more lubricated this time and Sherlock hisses. John is certain the hiss is a last-minute substitute for a moan, and he swallows the end of it by pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock lets him in and this time it’s John who has to suppress a moan at the thick, hungry strokes of Sherlock’s tongue over his. They kiss deeply for several seconds, while John strokes Sherlock, the wet, obscene sounds of their kisses and hand on cock making John’s own buttocks clench.

He pulls away from the kiss and Sherlock seeks him blindly, lips reddened and eyes shut. He already looks half-lost in abandon and John’s eyes become hooded. He battles himself for a moment over whether he shouldn’t just spread Sherlock’s lips open with his cock and fuck his mouth viciously. But he’s made Sherlock a promise and he gets on with it. John lets go of Sherlock’s cock, then places his hand at the back of Sherlock's right thigh and pushes it forward, until it folds and Sherlock’s knee is touching the bed. John swiftly opens the small bottle he’s got at hand, gets some liquid on his fingers and, again without any pause for petting or caressing, parts Sherlock’s cheeks and positions his finger at the entrance.

For the next several minutes John’s methodical, but not clinical. At first his finger smears the lubricant and caresses the skin around the entrance, watching goosebumps appear on Sherlock's skin. He slowly pushes through the tight passage and eases out, then repeats. When the movement becomes smoother, John finds Sherlock’s prostate and grazes it with efficiency. The sight of trembling eyelashes and lips in the shape of a silent “Oh” is very rewarding, so John lightly bites Sherlock's shoulder. He continues his excruciating play with the spot, making the touches random and unpredictable and sure enough, Sherlock begins moaning into the pillow and pushing back onto John’s finger, seeking the tip that electrifies him with pleasure. John buries his other hand in Sherlock's hair and pulls— just a little bit on the rough side— while laying down the rules.

“No, no. I decide when to do it. You just stay still— and you don’t touch yourself either. Or I’ll stop.” Sherlock makes a sound like a whine. John’s finger withdraws immediately, only the tip staying in. “Is that clear?” When there’s no answer John pushes in again then pulls his finger out completely and repeats, “Sherlock, is that clear?” John can feel the nod in the tendrils entwined in his fingers. “Good,” he says curtly, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear. He resumes his merciless assault and soon Sherlock’s legs are trembling with arousal and the effort not to push back his hips into John’s touch. His ragged breath is echoing in the room and John is sure Sherlock’s cock is leaking. He checks, and he’s right. John teases the head with a few swirls of his thumb and a twist. He makes sure he lets go as soon as he hears something akin to “Yesss…”. Then he returns to his previous location; Sherlock’s entrance accepts his two fingers hungrily, but Sherlock obeys and keeps still.

John works him open until his own hand starts feeling pins and needles, but it’s worth it. Sherlock’s waiting for him now, slick both front and back— and panting into the pillow. He’s still lying on his side with his left leg straight, but the folded one has moved up further and further. John pulls back to get a condom and his eyes gleam with want at the view: Sherlock lying open, legs spread as wide as possible at that angle, eyes drooping, mouth lush and slack— all ready for John, who begins to itch to caress him, to cover his pale smooth back with kisses, to lick and suck on his buttocks. He feels love— he always does— but angry lust to push and teach and _take_ overcomes everything else. He’ll be gentle another time, when the fierceness from earlier no longer throbs in his belly.

John grabs a couple of pillows and taps Sherlock’s bottom. “Lift.” Sherlock pushes himself up unsteadily and John tucks the pillows under his hips. “Lie down on your front,” is John’s next quiet order and Sherlock obeys, but his eyes betray a mixture of arousal and uncertainty; they’ve done this only with Sherlock facing John, both times. John can sense Sherlock’s emotions with his eyes closed at any given time. Something uncoils in his chest and he stretches his own body to cover Sherlock’s protectively, his cock resting between warm and firm, rounded flesh. He murmurs in Sherlock’s ear, “I'm going to fuck you now. And I promise you, you _will_ enjoy it.” Then he lifts the hair covering Sherlock’s neck and presses an open-mouthed wet kiss on the skin underneath. A full-body shiver shakes Sherlock and he lets out his first loud moan. John painfully wants to be buried deep inside him. The condom’s put on in a hurry; John bites his own lip to prevent a groan coming out when his fingers come into contact with his neglected cock. Then he hitches Sherlock’s hips up a bit more and spreads his legs. He presses the tip of his cock at the entrance and finally pushes in.

It’s overwhelming: the slickness, the tightness, the heat— all magnified by the awareness of whose body he is penetrating. John sinks mostly in and stills, allowing Sherlock to accommodate him. But His Royal Impatience pushes back, getting John in to the hilt. John hisses and lowers himself, once more covering Sherlock’s body with his own. “I said you were to stay still. If you want to be fucked, you’ll wait for me to fuck you.” John withdraws then angles and snaps his hips, pushing his cock in deeply and hitting Sherlock’s prostate to make a point. Sherlock gasps and utters something incoherent.

“I need you to tell me you understand. Do you understand?” There is a faint _yes_ from underneath. “I didn’t catch that, say it again.”

John can see Sherlock’s flushed face in profile; those lips open for a throaty, “Yes, John.”

“Okay then,” John says casually. “You’ll get your arse fucked to within an inch of its life now.”

Sherlock’s body is taut with the effort not to thrust into the pillows at John’s words. John should have known this kind of talk would be a turn on. Nothing subtle for Sherlock, nothing by halves. _He needs this as much as I do_ , John realizes in a haze, as he starts moving. _He needs someone to halt him, to take charge of him. Well, he’s got me now._

John props himself up on his hands and builds his steady rhythm. With every push he feels perfect friction and it's so good, he'd close his eyes to lose himself in the sensation— but he wants to watch. Sherlock’s squashed face on the mattress is pure sex: eyes fluttering, lips full and sinfully wet. His slightly damp hair contrasts stunningly with his back’s expanse of white skin, where lean muscles ripple from John’s movements. John is the choreographer of their dance and it's as if he is the owner of the ripples, of the muscles, of the flesh, of the man beneath him. The feeling of mastery over this infuriating, adored creature spikes a chain of explosions under John's skin. He shakes and twists, seeking deeper possession. He changes his angle of entry; he slows down then speeds up. He rotates his hips in the dirtiest way he can imagine, until at last he just fucks Sherlock with abandon, his thighs slapping the flesh underneath. Sherlock is now moaning with every thrust, the sounds coming out like pleas. John is filled with so much hunger and love that even while he’s fucking Sherlock, he wants to fuck him _more_. His body lies over Sherlock’s again; he slides his lower arms alongside Sherlock’s and grabs his wrists, practically locking him in place. Then he presses his face into the dark curls and words spill out of him, while he’s holding back his own spill: _God, fuck, Sherlock, oh God, do you like that, hmm, you do, don’t you, you like me fucking you, you're so tight, so fucking tight, I love being inside you, so deep, you're gorgeous, you’re made for my cock, you’re made for me, does it feel good, tell me…_ John’s mumblings are largely rhetorical but he gets an answer to his question anyway: Sherlock’s low voice, barely recognizable, moans back, “John, John, yes, John, more…”

John groans loudly and pulls Sherlock up on his knees, then sits back on his own heels, lifting Sherlock further up so he’s got him sitting on his cock. He holds Sherlock’s rock-hard cock and begins stroking him in earnest. It’s not long and John gasps under the clenching tightness around his own cock: Sherlock is coming harder than John’s seen before, completely silent but for his manic breathing. He’s thrown his head back into John’s shoulder and his hand has covered John’s hand, fingers trying to merge with fingers. John lets him ride his orgasm, steeling himself against the urge to push Sherlock forward and hump him; but soon he can’t bear it anymore and pulls out of the hot body. With one movement he turns the still-dizzied Sherlock on his back, and with the next the condom comes off. John straddles Sherlock’s waist and starts fucking his own fist. It takes several frantic strokes and John’s coming, intense pleasure exploding in his belly; his eyes open in time to see the stripes of his sperm landing on Sherlock’s chest, neck and chin— deliciously close to his bottom lip. The orgasm obliterates everything and for a few long moments John streams into unconsciousness. Then a need arises from it: he wants to close the circle, to complete this power shift. His index finger dips into the white spot on Sherlock’s chin— John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s in a final dazed contest— and John brings his finger to Sherlock’s lips. They are still parted and immobile, but then Sherlock’s tongue comes out and starts slowly licking John’s finger clean.

When John’s brain next opens for business, the first thing it registers is Sherlock’s eyes— almost colourless, hushed and unblinkingly riveted. John’s own fill with quiet triumph.

***

Thirty minutes later they are still in bed, both too exhausted to move and too busy processing. John’s spooning Sherlock lightly and sighs with contentment for a third time. Sherlock hasn’t objected to any of the affections John’s bestowed upon him, but after the sigh John hears a voice with a very distinct Sherlockian timber to it: “I may not be looking at you, but try to erase the look of an excited sheep from your face, will you?”

John’s heart jumps in his chest; he’s relieved that nothing’s really changed. That he hasn’t played with Sherlock and broken him. He bites Sherlock’s offensive shoulder blade. “Not bad, for a starting time,” he murmurs. There’s alertness in the body next to his and John knows Sherlock’s listening. He continues: “Half an hour of peace and quiet is what a damn good shag gets me.”

Sherlock seems to be conceding the point; his reply arrives slightly amused but mingled with hope: “I suppose you’ll want to work on expanding that time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. This was my first piece of explicit smut and remains one of my favourite. Apart from featuring a dominant top!John, I've been told it has a kink or two as well, hence the tagging. Original entry both at http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/1847211.html and at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/11376.html Thank you for reading!


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